


The Valley Social

by gayforroxane



Series: fernie, british columbia [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: M/M, TATTOOS!, coffee shop au?, daddy kink also rimming oof, eddie's a badass, everyone else is minor im sorry i love them though bev is fantastic and cute as always, good fun, he likes to colour that's not important but you should all know, i just really love fernie, writer! eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak has been travelling since he was seventeen, since his mother died. One day, he ends up in Fernie, British Columbia, and meets someone he'd like to stick to.ora shameless travelling fic with flirting, eddie being a badass, and a rim job





	The Valley Social

**Author's Note:**

> me? posting? ridiculous?   
> me not updating my WIPs? normal.

When he was seventeen years old, Eddie Kaspbrak’s mother died. 

She was fifty-two, fat, and her cheeks sagged into her mouth, her lips beneath her teeth. 

Her coffin sagged and stumbled and lumbered its way into the ground. His Aunt Clara stood nearby, straight-necked and stiff-backed, watching her sister die with no discernible expression on her face. 

Eddie was openly unimpressed. He wore shorts - his favourites, light grey that his mother had always insisted were too short to wear (and she was probably right, they barely covered the curve of the ass he was just beginning to realize he had, and put his smooth, strong thighs on display, the freckles quiet, drawing attention and desire) - and a pastel pink sweater, pretty and loose collared, the kind of thing that fell off its owner’s shoulder and put throats and pulse points on display. His hair was long enough to curl over his ears. White socks crawled up his legs, blue bands of colour tucked just beneath his knees. His converse were new, a gift to himself, white and spotless. Just like Sonia’s little boy. Pure. Clean. 

His aunt coughed a smile beneath her white gloves when she saw what he was wearing. She wore fine clothes - a silk blouse and tailored trousers, a jacket that accentuated the pull of her waist and push of her hips.

A quiet rebellion against a dead woman.

 

Father Jack, a solemn man who may have loved Sonia Kaspbrak if he hadn't sworn his life to God, left them with a short nod of his head, his mouth tight. He hadn't looked at either of them through the service. To him, they were only Sonia’s caricatures; her sinful, whorish son who kept pictures of half-naked men on his desk, uncaring of if his mother saw, and her lesbian bitch of a sister-in-law who wouldn't offer even a penny of the money she had in abundance. 

The cartoons sat quietly beside one another. They sat on a bench, several feet from the ice cream parlour, their fingers and tongues and mouths sticky with sugar and waffle cone crumbs. 

“You know,” Clara said, her voice light and high, but commanding respect, edged with a North Carolina tug, “Your father left me an awful sum of money to give to you when you turned eighteen.” 

Eddie knew this, of course. His mother often cursed out her dead husband’s sister, screeching that the money Frank had left was hers and hers alone, useless for Eddie as he was too fragile, too stupid to attend any kind of post-secondary, and would of course live with his mother for the rest of his life, too burdened to do much of anything else. 

“He left it with me because he knew Sonia’s inclinations.” The last word fell out of her mouth and skittered across tile, a cockroach running from light. “Do you know how much he left, Eddie?” 

He'd always liked that she refused his mother's insistence that he be called ‘Edward.’ 

“No.” He assumed it wasn't much. A few thousand, maybe, enough for an undergraduate degree at a state university. 

Clara smirked around her strawberry ice cream. “Two-point-three million.” 

“Holy fuck.” 

A grin cracked across her face, all white teeth and a curling tongue, bright and blinding. “You should probably invest some of it.” She licked ice cream off her fingers. “Put a hundred thousand in a few different places, to make sure you always have something to fall back on.” Her eyes, dark blue and startling, peered at him for a moment. He raised an eyebrow and stared back, chin lifters. “You're smart enough to know that work is not simply a means to an end.” She had apparently liked what she'd seen. 

Eddie nodded, and wrinkled his nose as chocolate dripped onto his bare thighs. 

“What do you wanna do?” She said in that casual way that adults never asked questions - like the answer was completely his own. There were no expectations lurking behind her consonants and no self-fulfillment in her grammar. 

Eddie had never been asked that before. Not by teachers or mothers or friends, not even by himself, except late at night, when he gnawed at his door frame and children's bed sheets and wanted nothing more than to leave Derry. So he pulled what he thought of on those nights, something so ridiculous he never would have proposed it to his mother. And he told Aunt Clara, hesitance and grime curdling under his manicured fingernails. 

He held his breath as she appraised him, her gaze flickering over him, over his shorts and his sweater and his new shoes, over his hair and the purple mark on his collarbone. 

Slowly, a smile bloomed over her face. 

And Eddie never saw Derry again. 

 

“Hey, can I get a drip coffee to go, please?”

“Sure thing, kid. Room for cream?” The tips of her fingers all the way to her collarbones was coated with tattoos, big and bright and bold things that surprised him as much as her low, rough voice, harshened by cigarettes. Her wrist was adorned with a green and pink bird, her left bicep with a lion, her right with a snake eating its own tail. A turtle curled in the delicate skin of her inner elbow. She looked him up and down, casual, but attentive. Her eyes flickered from his buttoned pink shirt to the wooden plugs in his ears, and the lip gloss on his mouth. He tensed. Sometimes, wearing what he liked was not always a good idea in a small town, even in Bee-Cee. But a smile curved her mouth, and she winked at him, gentle. “Room for cream?” 

“Please.”

“That’ll be three-fifty.” 

He sorted through the familiar, but foreign coins in his palm. He dropped a big silver coin with a gold centre, a slighter smaller gold coin and two thin silver coins into her extended hand. Her nails were unpainted and her cuticles red and sore-looking. 

“American?” She asked, voice a little teasing. 

He laughed, a customer-service kind of laugh, delicate and quiet, intentionally well-meaning. “Maybe a little.” 

“You on a work visa?”

Her blatant interest surprised him. There were several people curling in a line behind him. He moved to the left of the register and leaned against the counter, watching her move from the sink to the mugs to the machine. 

He shook his head in response to her question, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dual citizenship. My dad was Canadian.” 

Her shoulders gathered in the middle when he said ‘dad,’ the space behind her heart going tight and unhappy. Her freckles moved over the flexing muscles. 

“Lucky you.” She handed him his coffee. She didn’t move back to the line at the register, but started bustling again, wiping the steamer with a hiss and a pink cloth that looked like an ancient bandana. “How long you been here?”

The questions that spilled from her mouth were travel small-talk. He wasn’t sure why she was amusing him, keeping him around. 

“Just checked in.” 

“At the Red Tree Lodge?”

“Nah, an Air Bee-n-Bee down a couple streets over.” 

“Ooh,” she teased, “Rich boy.” 

He laughed, something closer to his real laugh, harsh and clucking from the back of his throat. 

Her eyes flickered to the door, and then back to him as she handed a huge black man in an apron something that looked sweet and creamy. 

He smiled. “How are you, Bev?” 

She stuck her tongue out at him. The youthfulness of the motion was endearing, and Eddie smiled, glancing at the man. 

The man winked at Eddie and laughed at Bev, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to her cheek and drop a box of something on the counter for her. It smelled amazing, the smell of roasted chicken and fresh basil wafting from the box to Eddie, the top of it emblazoned with a simple logo that simply said ‘LUNCH BOX.’ He glanced out the windowed front of the cafe, and saw, across the street a restaurant of the same name. 

“Beverly, my dearest darling, how are you?” 

A slightly nasally voice burst from the front of the cafe, as a lean man with a shock of black hair stepped into the cafe, clapping an unsuspecting young man on the back as he did, leaning down to say something to the man that made him laugh, high-pitched and flattered. Eddie raised an eyebrow. The loud man ruffled the other guy’s curls, and pouted when his hand was slapped away with a sharp, but fond, “Fuck off, Richie.” 

“But Staniel!” Richie said, and smacked a kiss to the man’s cheek before jumping away, and towards Beverly at the counter. Smacking both hands down on the white marbled surface, he bumped his shoulder lightly into Eddie’s and said to Beverly (to the whole cafe, really, everyone’s eyes turned to him, with non-local surprise and confusion or local amusement), “The love of my life has left me, Bev, he’s left me and he no longer loves me.” 

Bev, taking the order from a confused non-local with one hand and giving Richie a tattooed middle-finger with the other. “Get back here so I can eat, bitch.” 

Richie sighed, and sat on the counter backwards, swinging his legs around to drop down on the other side, fumbling and awkward, but clearly familiar.

Eddie smiled into his mug, pretending to take a sip. 

“Thanks, Beverly.” Eddie smiled at her, glanced at the tall man, who danced a little to the Johnny Cash that bounced across the walls of the cafe. 

“No problem, kid,” she said, around a mouthful of what looked like a grilled wrap, thick with vegetables and roasted chicken. 

 

The Red Tree Lodge was clean. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and the bathroom was free of bugs or mold. There was no noise from the neighbours, and Fernie’s streets were quiet, with the occasional peel of young laughter drifting through his window. He thought of the tall, awkward man. He thought about going back to the coffee shop the next day. 

His aunt Clara sat in his mind, unusually loud. He remembered the day she’d asked him what he want, his reply of ‘an Airstream, and enough money to travel until I die.’ She had acquiesced so quickly, waving her hand when he mentioned the dangers of dropping out of high school. ‘There are more important things.’ 

He hoped he’d be like her someday, fearless, but maybe a little less lonely. Maybe more willing to smile. 

 

He’d forgotten all of his clothes in the Airstream. He kept it clean enough, the bed rumpled but useable and the storage properly sorted. Fernie was cold in the morning. He walked across the parking lot in his sleep shorts and tank top, his room key in one hand and his other pressing his phone to his ear. 

“I’ll stay here for a while,” he said, and unlocked the little silver door. He wrinkled his nose. It needed to be aired out. 

_ Well, sure, as long as you get that piece done.  _ Bill’s voice was only half there. It was possible that he was in the middle of a meeting with Ben, who was humouring his distractedness, too patient to point out that meetings were not for phone calls with waylaid writers. 

“Fuck you, I’m always on time.” 

_ Aren’t you screechy this muh-morning.  _

Eddie put the phone on speaker and threw it on his bed. He pulled striped white trousers up his legs, rolled them at the hem, and tugged on a white t-shirt. 

“Tucked in or not?” He asked, looking down at his body, at the flatness of his stomach and the curve of his thighs. Something gathered in his stomach. 

_ Well, are you horny or nuh-not? _

“What does that have to do with anything?” Eddie put his hands on his waist and glared at his phone, as if Bill could feel the hard stare. 

_ When you’re horny and wanna get ruh-rawed until you cuh-cuh-cry, you tuh-tuck - you tuck in your shuh-shuh-shuh shirt. _

Eddie paused. “Fuck you. And I don’t do that!” 

_ Shuh-sure, Eddie.  _

“Fuck you, Bill.”

In New York, Bill chuckled and in Fernie, Eddie sighed, short and sharp. “Ugh, fine.” He tucked his shirt in. 

_ Suh-suh-so, who is - who is it?  _

“Who’s who?” Eddie snapped, irritable at Bill’s knowing. 

_ Thuh-the guy you’re tuh-tucking your shuh-shuh-shirt in for?  _

“No one! I’ve only been here for like, fifteen hours, there is no guy.” Eddie knew his voice was a little higher than usual, and that Bill would not buy his bullshit even for a second, because even several thousand miles away, his best friend knew that even as he said there was no guy, his mind was on someone. On a tall, dark-haired someone who could jump a counter, even awkwardly, someone who would, without a doubt, piss him off and turn him on in equal measure. 

_ Uh huh. Guh-get thuh-thuh-that piece done for muh-me, okay? Muh-muh-muh-make it good.  _

But Eddie knew Bill as well as Bill knew him. “Why’re you stuttering so much, Big Bill?” He coloured his voice with smug knowing. Something was going on. 

_ I’m use-useless at kuh-kuh-keeping secrets, buh-Ben shuh-shuh-shouldn’t have tuh-told me.  _ Bill sighed.  _ Wuh-wuh-we’re cuh-coming to muh-meet you in Fuh-Fer-Fernie.  _

It had been nearly nine months since he’d seen either Ben or Bill. They’d met him in Montreal, all of them giddy with the taste and sound of a new city, something so bustling. Fernie was tiny, only one mainstreet, but the mountains encircled the town, huge green and grey peaks like indulgent grandparents. Bill would love the food and the tiny yoga studio, Ben would love the hiking, the canoeing. “When are you guys coming?” Eddie asked, uncaring that his tone was so blatantly earnest, longing for his friends. 

_ We’re luh-luh-leaving in two days. I’ve guh-gotta guh-go. I’ll see you soon. Luh-Love you!  _

There was the hum and click of Bill’s landline landing in its cradle, the quick mutter of voices that meant Ben had come back into the room, with ideas and business things for Bill to be, for once, serious and fully concentrated on. 

 

“Where have you been?”

Beverly’s enthusiastic greeting pulled the eyes of every person in the cafe to him. It wasn’t busy - it’s seven-thirty in the morning, on a Wednesday - but there are enough people that he squirms, just slightly. Their gazes were soft, but he felt more than one linger one his outfit, from the tuck of his waist to the flare of his thighs. He met her eyes and grinned. It’s only been three days, but he missed her, more than he should’ve. 

“You don’t even know my name,” he pointed out, leaning across the counter to accept the kiss she pressed to his cheek despite the barbs in his tone. 

“No,” she conceded. “But I have a friend who  _ really  _ wants it. And your number. And a piece of your ‘ass prettier than a goddamn painting and hotter than the fucking desert’ as he so eloquently put it.” 

“Which friend?” Eddie asked. He wanted to sit on the counter, to spin around to rest his feet in her space, to be close to someone so familiar they could be family. 

“Richie. The one with the hair and no ‘off’ button.” She raised her eyebrows, shaking her shoulders. “What did you think of him?” 

Eddie took a sip of the coffee she offered, and shrugged, feeling coy, but a smile in his teeth gave him away. 

“You’re my  _ favourite _ ,” Beverly crowed. “Come over here, come gossip with me. What’s your name?”

He liked that she wanted to be close to him, too. She urged him over the counter and tucked him into the counter, his ass on the white marble, and mentioned that it wasn’t like the owner would care. 

He settled onto the counter, onto his new place, and lifted his legs up to cross them, holding his mug with two hands, aware of the cuteness of the position, ignoring the curious glances of the locals and non-locals that ordered morning coffee and hot chocolate, smiling at the children who watched him with wide eyes. 

“You’re adorable, how dare you.” Bev filled his cup with hot chocolate and handed it back to him. 

“I know--”

“Morning, Bevvie.” 

Her tank top was high-necked in the front and cut to the hem of her jeans in the back. The skin of her shoulders rippled as she tensed, her back to Eddie, staring at the man at the register with cold blue eyes. 

“Get out, Tom.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” 

Behind him in line, a mother shifted her daughter on to her hip and grabbed the hand of her other one, pulled them towards the door, not looking back. 

Tom was tall, and broad, the kind of man who worked out, and did so constantly, for the attention he received and no other reason. He wore board shorts and a t-shirt. Innocuous. But his eyes were dark, rimmed with something that lingered in Beverly’s hair and her concealed breasts, on her delicate wrists and the straight line of her fingers, the whiteness of her knuckles. Eddie hopped off the counter and came up beside her, nonchalantly leaning against the counter, faking a confidence and a sense of place he was only starting to develop in the small space of the cafe. 

“Can I help you, sir?” 

The man’s gaze turned easily to Eddie. He watched the curve of the muscles in Eddie’s arms, visible beneath rolled-up shirt sleeves, the curve of his hips. “You offerin’, sweet thing?” 

Eddie glared at him. “Get the fuck out before I kick you the fuck out.” 

“Oh, that’s cute, bitch. You think you can--”

Without missing a beat, Beverly leaned forward and spat in Tom’s face, the split slightly coloured pink with the colour of her lipstick. “I have a restraining order against you. Leave or I call the cops.” 

Tom’s mouth curled and the attractive line of his jaw was marred and made ugly by his expression. “You’re a bitch, you never knew how fucking good I was for you. No son of a bitch is ever gonna give it to you like I--” 

“Excuse me, sir.” Tom, Beverly, and Eddie all turned to the voice at the same moment, their eyes falling on a blonde man, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, watching them carefully. A thin man with dark eyes and dark hair stood behind him. “Please don’t talk to her like that.” The words were even and delicate. He held Tom’s gaze for three long beats. 

“Well, fuck you, guy, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are--”

Eddie hopped over the counter, ignoring the pull in his hamstrings as he did so and stood in front of a Tom for a split second, before throwing his right arm back and punching him square in the mouth. Tom staggered back, blinking. 

“Eddie, wait--” Bev shouted, but Tom was stepping forward, moving his hands up in poor form, as if a hitting an unmoving bag was the same as hitting a hundred-and-forty pound, trained boxer. 

Eddie threw himself forward, ducking under Tom’s swinging arm and aiming sharply for his solar plexus. 

“You bitch!” He gasped, stumbling once again, falling to his knees with the hit Eddie landed on his jaw. 

“Get the fuck out!” Eddie snapped. All at once, the cafe froze, thankfully empty but for them, and then erupted into movement as someone tall and dark-haired got in between Eddie and Tom, pushing Eddie back with a huge, firm hand on his chest. 

“You heard them.” The man’s voice was higher than Beverly, even and tight, clearly restrained. “If you don’t get the fuck out, I’ll let this angel--” He gestured at Eddie, his gaze still fixed on Tom. “--Tear you the fuck apart.” 

“And I’ll do a damn good job of it, too, you useless son of a bitch,” Eddie snapped, stepping up next to the man. 

Tom staggered to his feet, and pointed a trembling finger at Bev, mouth twisted ugly and fierce. “I’ll get you one day, you bitch.” He stumbled out, snapping and swearing under his breath, taking the heavy smell of cologne and cheap beer with him. 

The room seemed to relax the moment he left, and Richie was immediately all over Beverly, folding her into a long, full-bodied hug, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, whispering in her ear. 

“I hate him,” she whispered, and Eddie turned away, pretending that he couldn’t hear and glanced at the blonde man and his friend, raising an eyebrow. 

“You were supposed to be here yesterday.” 

Bill snorted, rolling his eyes. “Shuh-shuh-shut the fuck up, Eddie.” 

Ben stepped forward, folding Eddie into a hug, tucking the smaller man into his shoulder, resting his chin on top of his head. “Missed you, Eddie,” he said softly, not in a way that was embarrassed or ashamed, but private, comfortable. Eddie squeezed. 

“You too, Benny.” 

Bill tugged him in the moment Ben let go, ruffling his hair and giving him a brisk, awkward hug, all pointy elbows and knees. “Love you, Eddie.” 

“You too, Big Bill.” 

“I’m sorry,  _ Big Bill _ , can I steal the knight in shining armour?” Bev asked, smiling lightly, her cheeks pink, her eyes firmly not on Ben. 

Eddie turned to her, fixing her with a sharp gaze. “Are you alright?” His voice came out harsh and abrupt, like Bill’s knobbly knees, but Bev just smiled and blushed lightly. 

“I’m okay. Thanks, Eddie.” 

Richie was standing awkwardly nearby, fidgeting, trying not to catch Eddie’s eyes while also watching him with blatant, avid interest. 

“This is Richie,” Beverly said, smiling and wrapping an arm around Eddie’s waist, laying her head on his shoulder. 

Richie looked up at Eddie, despite the six inches he had on him. “That was probably the most badass thing I’ve ever seen in my life and scared but also incredibly attracted to you.” 

Eddie grinned and let his gaze fall over the other man. His mass of curly hair was gathered in a bun on top of his head, and his face was miles of dark, heavy eyebrows and sharp cheekbones, strands of hair falling across his forehead and jaw. His mouth was full and pink. He folded his arms across his body, hunching, keeping his gaze sternly away from Eddie. 

“Big Bill, huh? You must be packin something huge for pretty Eds over here to want a piece of it.” 

Eddie didn’t hear Richie’s words, his eyes gathered on his tattoos. They sprawled lazily over the backs of his hands and his wrists, up his forearms and biceps, on his collar bones and on the vulnerable skin of his legs. Bev’s were bright, bold and attention-seeking, drawn in colour, fuschia and turquoise and orange, but Richie’s were simply black lines, fine lines of woven creatures and objects, a huge landscape on his skin. 

Colouring had been one of the only things Sonia had never taken from him. Colouring was a safe activity, feminine, but not worryingly so, and it kept him indoors and beneath her gaze, wet like rotting earth. He still kept a box of colouring books next to his bed in the Airstream, a box of bright, fine-line pens, and a box of Prismacolor pencil crayons. Nine months ago, in Montreal, he’d bought a pack of skin-safe markers, indulging one of his quiet, useless dreams of colouring someone who wasn’t Ben or Bill, someone who bumped into him in the morning, who felt more comfortable travelling than being still, who could live out of his sixteen foot Airstream (Alice). It was the same dream that accompanied his thoughts of getting a bigger Airstream, the same model but eight feet longer, a little more generous. Something built for two people to live in, not just the one. 

Part of the problem was that he’d never met someone with colourable tattoos. He’d never met anyone willing to sit and let him draw, lost in the colours and the precision and the ease of colouring, such a childish act that he’d never indulged in with anyone but Ben and Bill, friends so old they were practically woven into his skin.  

Maybe, he thought, very quietly, Richie would let him. Maybe Richie liked to travel. Maybe Richie could like him enough to spend six months out of the year travelling in a sixteen-foot (or twenty-four, if they needed) Airstream, where the laundry is hung on lines, and sometimes lost to sudden wind or rain, where the food is worn-out, but tasty, where the bed has to be shared. He looked at Richie, at his enormous brown eyes and his mess of curly hair. His mouth stretched in a smile at something Ben said. His teeth were almost too big for his mouth. He leaned against the counter, Bev at his side, the two of them pressed together casually, and Eddie felt something bumble beneath his breastbone. Maybe Richie was attracted to him, but maybe it was only the casual attraction that would last the two weeks he spent in Fernie. Maybe he’d have to leave Fernie, leave someone he didn’t know but who felt sewn into the soles of his feet, into the places he had been and would been. He could never come back if he left like that. 

“Eddie?” Bev was at his elbow, and Richie and the others were gone. 

He blinked, willing the tears away from behind his nose. “Yeah?”

She smiled, knowing, but gentle. “We’re going to Lunch Box, do you wanna come?” 

“Just you and me?” 

“No, Bill and Richie and Ben, too.” She said Ben’s name like it was raw chocolate and fresh raspberries, like a garden and a blooming forest. 

His cheeks flushed at Richie’s name. “Sounds good.” 

Bev paused at the cafe’s door, tugging it shut to lock it, a hasty note already scrawled on the door. 

_ We fucked off for lunch!!! Bye, bitches!!!!! _

A grin curled over Eddie’s mouth at the thick, ugly writing that had to belong to Richie. 

“You know,” Bev said as they jaywalked the quiet street to the Lunch Box, “Richie’s a good guy. Don’t hurt him.”

She pushed the door open, jumping on Ben’s back where he was waiting in line, Richie just in front of him. He watched them all, their grateful smiles and their graceful laughs that bubbled from their throats, and for a moment, he wanted to turn and ran away. He’d never had anyone, not since the day his aunt Clara had asked what he wanted in life. He wanted to leave, to go back to Montreal, or to New York, or San Francisco, anywhere. 

But then Richie turned around, clearly searching him out, and caught his eyes, his dark brown eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. A lopsided grin tugged his mouth into a lazy crescent moon. He moved out of the line and up to Eddie, his hands in the pockets of his joggers (Eddie hadn’t noticed before, but they were pink - light, peachy pink - his t-shirt screamed for Johnny Cash, his shoes were nearly worn-through Bloodstones, and it was endearing, his jumbled combination of styles and selves). Eddie tilted his chin up to look at him. He wondered what he saw, what this strange, fumbling man thought of his white t-shirt and his tight, striped pants, his red converse, the lip gloss on his mouth and the plugs in his ears, the rings on his fingers. 

“You’re so pretty,” Eddie said. He wrapped one tiny, strong hand over Richie’s strong, tattooed forearm. “You want lunch? I’ll buy.” 

Richie smiled, a little shy, but his eyes dark with something that couldn’t be less shy. “Am I your sugar baby, Eddie Spaghetti?” 

Eddie recoiled. “That was fucking disgusting! Don’t ever call me that again.” He slipped around Richie to stand with their friends, but he let his hand drag over his arm and his waist. Richie crowded behind him, his chin pressed against Eddie’s cheek, his huge resting over Eddie’s stomach, brushing his zipper. 

“You don’t wanna be my sugar daddy?” His voice was pitched low, shaking just slightly, like he wasn’t sure how Eddie would react. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, turning his arms to take hold of Richie chin, hard enough to dig into the bone, just a bit. “I don’t mind being your daddy at all.” 

Richie whined and fell forward, pressing his forehead into Eddie’s, taking a long, slow breath. “God, Eds.” 

Laughing, Eddie kissed his cheek, and turned to ask Bev what she’d been eating the first day he came in. Richie coiled an arm over his shoulders, dropping a kiss into his hair. 

Eddie leaned into him, still listening to Bev, nodding as she spoke. “What are you gonna have, Rich?” Then he blinked, like he’d surprised himself with the nickname. 

Richie looked at him, at his wide brown eyes and the freckles across his nose, his soft mouth. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, Eds.” 

 

“God I want you to eat me, fuck fuck fuck.”

“You want me to eat you out on the first--”

“No - actually, yeah, fuck, that’d be so hot, please please please.”

Eddie laughed into Richie’s wet mouth, soft and pliant beneath his tongue and stinging teeth. He sucked Richie’s lower lip into his mouth and bit down hard enough to hear Richie whimper, curled his hands into his hair to hear him squeak. 

“Take off your pants, baby,” Eddie murmured, and stepped back to watch. Richie watched him, chest heavy, cheeks bright with colour and his lips swollen. He reached huge hands to the waistband of his joggers and pushed them down, flushing even brighter as Eddie hummed appreciatively, his eyes lingering on the trail of dark hair on his stomach, the dark hair on his pale thighs. He kicked them off, pulled his shirt off next, without Eddie’s prompting. 

“Good boy.” Eddie moved back into his space, kissing his collarbone and digging his fingers into his ribs. He pulled off. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall.” 

Richie keened, high-pitched and breathless as he did what Eddie asked. “Eds--”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie said, pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades, to his lower back, to the waistband of his boxers (hot pink, yet somehow still attractive, completely suited to Richie). “That’s not my name, is it?” 

“Eddie,” Richie corrected quickly, trembling as Eddie’s hands slid up his calves to his thighs, kneading at his ass. “Eddie, please.” 

“Hmm.” Tugging at the boxers, Eddie pulled them down, waiting patiently as Richie stepped out of them. He rested both of his hands on Richie’s ass, digging his fingers into the skin between the curve of his ass and the hard muscle of his thighs. “Spread your legs.” Richie did, biting hard into his lower lip as Eddie brushed a dry thumb over his hole. 

“Fuck,” Richie gasped, forearms braced on the wall. “Eds - Eddie, please.” 

“That’s not my name either, baby boy.” Eddie licked a slow line over his hole, barely a brush of muscle on skin. Richie moaned, head tossing wildly, his hands curled into fists against the wall. “Say my name, baby. Beg for me and I’ll eat you out. I’ll let you come.” 

Richie moaned again, loud and heavy, breathing loudly. 

Eddie brought a sharp down on one cheek, delighting in the sound of his skin and Richie’s ensuing whimper. “Spread yourself, sweetheart.” Huge hands gripped his own ass and spread, letting Eddie press forward and spit, his tongue following, licking and sucking over his hole, his own cock throbbing in his pants. He dug his nails into Richie’s thighs and pressed both thumbs into his hole to spread him open, fucking his tongue into the shaking man above him. 

“Please, please Eddie, please let me come.”

Eddie pulled away and yanked Richie’s hands off his ass, standing and landing three sharp, open-palmed hits. His other hand knotted his hair, forced Richie’s back into an arch, pulling his head back. “What’s my name, baby doll?” 

Richie didn’t say anything, whining and trembling. Eddie slapped his ass twice more, hard enough for the other man to jerk, and pressed two fingers back into his hole, fucking his hard, finding his spot easily, rubbing it hard in slow circles that had Richie gasping, his eyes rolling back. Richie’s back arched further, and then he was whining loudly, his body jerking, knees buckling slightly as he came across the wall in front of him. 

Eddie kept pressing into that spot inside him. 

“Eddie, no, hurts--!”

“What’s your colour?” Eddie murmured into his jaw.  

“Green, green, green, green, please keep touching me.” Richie licked at his mouth, soft and desperate and wide-eyed, cheeks bright.

“Good boy.” Eddie pushed fingers hard into that spot, rubbing, pulling sharply at Richie hair, before pulling out and landing hit after hit on his already-red ass. The pale, freckled skin flushed quickly, and Richie pushed back into every hit, his back arching beautifully. “But what’s my name?” 

Richie shook his head, letting out little, high-pitched squeaks with every hit Eddie left on his raw skin. 

“Do you want my cock, baby?” Eddie asked. He let go of Richie’s hair and reached for a nipple instead, pulling and pinching sharply. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes please. Wan’ your cock, wan’ it so bad, please.” 

Eddie slipped two fingers back into his hole, and then a third, relentless as Richie groaned and thrashed in his grip, his cock already hard and leaking. “Then  _ say  _ my name, baby boy. Say my name, and you can have my cock.” 

Eddie pinched his nipple and bit into his neck, his fingers stretching and scissoring his hole, jabbing at his spot. Richie arched and jerked again, crying and whining. “Please, daddy, please give me your cock, daddy please, I wan’ it, I wan’ it in me, please.”

“There’s my good boy,” Eddie said, and let go of Richie, letting his collapse slightly against the wall. “Get on your knees and show daddy how good you can be for my cock.”

 

“Jesus, that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life.” 

Eddie laughed softly. He was laying next to Richie, his skin-safe markers in a box next to him on his stomach as Richie laid on his back, his forearm thrown out to the side, in Eddie’s gentle grasp. “Pink or green?” Eddie asked, cocking his head at the colours in front of him. 

Richie turned his head to the side, staring at Eddie’s profile, the elegant slope of his nose and the curves of his mouth. “Pink,” he said, and hoped, quietly, that Eddie would colour him for the rest of his life, in their sixteen-foot Airstream (Alice, from Alice B Toklas) with their double bed. 

He hoped. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks loves! lemme know what you thought and come bother me on tumblr! gay-for-roxane


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